ment of direct, instant communication.
Why does it bother you so much to talk about these
things? she asked.
I told her that once I had had a little boy whom I had loved
immensely. I felt the imperative to tell her about him. Some
extravagant need beyond my comprehension made me open
up with that woman who was a total stranger to me.
As I began to talk about that little boy, a wave of nostalgia
enveloped me; perhaps it was the place or the situation or the
time of the day. Somehow I had merged the memory of that
little boy with the memory of don Juan, and for the first time
in all the time I had not seen him I missed don Juan. Lidia had
said that they never missed him because he was always with
them; he was their bodies and their spirits. I had known in-
stantly what she meant. I felt the same way myself. In that
gully, however, an unknown feeling had overtaken me. I told
la Gorda that I had never missed don Juan until that moment.
She did not answer. She looked away.
Possibly my feeling of longing for those two people had to
do with the fact that both of them had produced catharses in
my life. And both of them were gone. I had not realized until
that moment how final that separation was. I said to la Gorda
that that little boy had been, more than anything else, my
friend, and that one day he was whisked away by forces I
could not control. That was perhaps one of the greatest blows
I had ever received. I even went to see don Juan to ask his
assistance. It was the only time I had ever asked him for help.
He listened to my plea and then he broke into uproarious
laughter. His reaction was so unexpected that I could not even
get angry. I could only comment on what I thought was his
insensitivity.
What do you want me to do? he asked.
I said that since he was a sorcerer perhaps he could help me
to regain my little friend for my solace.
You’re wrong. A warrior doesn’t seek anything for his
solace, he said in a tone that did not admit reproach.
Then he proceeded to smash my arguments. He said that a
warrior could not possibly leave anything to chance, that
a warrior actually affected the outcome of events by the force
of his awareness and his unbending intent. He said that if I
would have had the unbending intent to keep and help that
child, I would have taken measures to assure his stay with me.
But as it was, my love was merely a word, a useless outburst
of an empty man. He then told me something about emptiness
and completeness, but I did not want to hear it. All I felt was a
sense of loss, and the emptiness that he had mentioned, I was
sure, referred to the feeling of having lost someone irreplace-
able.
You loved him, you honored his spirit, you wished him
well, now you must forget him, he said.
But I had not been able to do so. There was something
terribly alive in my emotions even though time had mellowed
them. At one point I thought I had forgotten, but then one
night an incident produced the deepest emotional upheaval in
me. I was walking to my office when a young Mexican woman
approached me. She had been sitting on a bench, waiting for a
bus. She wanted to know if that particular bus went to a chil-
dren’s hospital. I did not know. She explained that her little
boy had had a high temperature for a long time and she was
worried because she did not have any money. I moved toward
the bench and saw a little boy standing on the seat with his
head against the back of the bench. He was wearing a jacket
and short pants and a cap. He could not have been more than
two years old. He must have seen me, for he walked to the
edge of the bench and put his head against my leg.
My little head hurts, he said to me in Spanish.
His voice was so tiny and his dark eyes so sad that a wave
of irrepressible anguish welled up in me. I picked him up and
drove him and his mother to the nearest hospital. I left them
there and gave the mother enough money to pay the bill. But I
did not want to stay or to know any more about him. I wanted
to believe that I had helped him, and that by doing so I had
paid back to the spirit of man.
I had learned the magical act of paying back to the spirit
of man from don Juan. I had asked him once, overwhelmed
by the realization that I could never pay him back for all he
had done for me, if there was anything in the world I could
do to even the score. We were leaving a bank, after exchang-
ing some Mexican currency.
I don’t need you to pay me back, he said, but if you still
want to pay back, make your deposit to the spirit of man.
That’s always a very small account, and whatever one puts in
it is more than enough.
By helping that sick child I had merely paid back to the
spirit of man for any help that my little boy may receive from
strangers along his path.
I told la Gorda that my love for him would remain alive for
the rest of my life even though I would never see him again. I
wanted to tell her that the memory I had of him was buried so
deep that nothing could touch it, but I desisted. I felt it would
have been superfluous to talk about it. Besides, it was getting
dark and I wanted to get out of that gully.
We better go, I said. I’ll take you home. Maybe some
other time we can talk about these things again.
She laughed the way don Juan used to laugh at me. I had
apparently said something utterly funny.
Why do you laugh, Gorda? I asked.
Because you know yourself that we can’t leave this place
just like that, she said. You have an appointment with power
here. And so do 1.
She walked back to the cave and crawled in.
Come on in, she yelled from inside. There is no way to
leave.
I reacted most incongruously. I crawled in and sat next to
her again. It was evident that she too had tricked me. I had not
come there to have any confrontations. I should have been
furious. I was indifferent instead. I could not lie to myself that
I had only stopped there on my way to Mexico City. I had
gone there compelled by something beyond my comprehen-
sion.
She handed me my notebook and motioned me to write. She
said that if I wrote I would not only relax myself but I would
also relax her.
What is this appointment with power? I asked.
The Nagual told me that you and I have an appointment
here with something out there. You first had an appoint-
ment with Soledad and then one with the little sisters. They
were supposed to destroy you. The Nagual said that if you
survived their assaults I had to bring you here so that we to-
gether could keep the third appointment.
What kind of appointment is it?
I really don’t know. Like everything else, it depends on us.
Right now there are some things out there that have been
waiting for you. I say that they have been waiting for you
because I come here by myself all the time and nothing ever
happens. But tonight is different. You are here and those things
will come.
Why is the Nagual trying to destroy me? I asked.
He’s not trying to destroy anybody! la Gorda exclaimed
in protest. You are his child. Now he wants you to be himself.
More himself than any of us. But to be a true Nagual you have
to claim your power. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so
careful in setting up Soledad and the little sisters to stalk you.
He taught Soledad how to change her shape and rejuvenate
herself. He made her construct a devilish floor in her room. A
floor no one can oppose. You see, Soledad is empty, so the
Nagual set her up to do something gigantic. He gave her a
task, a most difficult and dangerous task, but the only one
which was suited for her, and that was to finish you off. He
told her that nothing could be more difficult than for one
sorcerer to kill another. It’s easier for an average man to kill